My Favorite Mistake(13)

“Don't you have somewhere to be? Some other girls to objectify?” I asked.

“Why would I go anywhere when I have all I need right here?”

I was going to make a snappy comment, but couldn't come up with one. It surprised me that a twenty-year-old, good-looking guy wouldn't have plans on a Friday night. But hey, what did I know?





*****





Hunter treated me with the same cocky manner he'd used the first two days I'd met him, which was quite a change from the cold indifference. He made comments that would have made me blush a few years ago. Renee came back from her meeting and kept giving me a look when he did it. The I-told-you- so look.

I wasn't going to sleep with Hunter. I wasn't going to sleep with anyone, at least not right now. I couldn't even think of having sex without my hands shaking and my stomach turning.

I had no problem with other consenting adults doing it, but I knew that sex was messy. It was complicated and some people used it as a weapon. I was never going to let that happen to me. If I did it, it would be because I wanted to. And I hadn't met anyone who made me want to.

Yet.

He stayed up late on Friday night playing the guitar. I was exhausted from my failed meeting, so I went to bed. He asked me if I minded if he stayed up and played.

“Knock yourself out.”

“You wish,” he said and played a little tune from a commercial. Haha. I rolled my eyes and put the covers over my head, as if I was blocking him out.

“You know you like it.”

Yes, I did. More than I would ever admit.

I fell asleep to the sounds of guitar strumming.

When I woke up, he was mumbling again. It would have been downright adorable if he wasn't so upset. I considered waking him again, but I didn't want to lose my face. So I let him go and listened.

“Mommy, wake up. Please wake up.” His voice was scared.

I looked around and found a pair of socks that I balled up and chucked them as hard as I could at him. They bopped his shoulder, but he didn't wake up. I tried to find something else. I looked around and found a metal coat hanger on my closet door. I unfolded it and used it as a poking stick to jab him. It took a few tries, but he finally grabbed at the spot where I was poking.

“What the fuck?” his half-awake voice said.

I quickly threw my poking tool down and pretended I was asleep. I heard him turn over and I could feel his eyes on me.

“Did you just poke me?”

I decided to play dumb.

“What?” I said, attempting a sleepy voice.

“You just poked me with something.”

“No I didn't. I was sleeping until a moment ago.”

“No, you weren't. You were poking me with that piece of wire that's sitting on the floor. Very sly, Missy, but I'm not a moron.” He got up, and I heard him picking up my poking device.

“I was talking again, wasn't I?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Don't tell me what I said. I already know.”

“How?”

“Because I shared a room with my cousin growing up, and at one point he told me what I said.”

“You lived with Mase?” I asked, turning over. This was the first time he'd talked about his family. It was crazy early to be up on a Saturday, but this was worth getting up for. This was the first time Hunter had initiated talk about himself without me having to attack him for it.

“What happened to your parents?” I said quietly. I didn't want to scare him off.

He got back into bed. I rolled over, so I faced him. He was sitting up , his back against the wall and his legs over the edge.

“They're dead.” The air left the room, and I found it impossible to breathe. I couldn't find words to say to him. Nothing I said would mean anything.

“Yeah, that's what I thought,” he said after a few moments of my silence.

“I'm sorry. I just didn't know what to say, so I didn't want to say something stupid. I was trying to think of something to say that wasn't stupid. Guess I failed.”

To my surprise, he laughed.

“You don't have a filter. It's one of the things I like about you. Don't start now. Say whatever you want.”

“I'd say that's one of the saddest things I've ever heard, and it explains a lot.”

“Yes, it does,” he said, looking down at his hands. “And you're one of the only people who has said they were sorry, and I really believe you. People say things they don't mean all the time. It's easy to spot the bullshit.”

“Yeah, it is.” I was a professional bullshit spotter. It was one of my hidden talents.

“What happened to them?”

“Someday I'll tell you,” he said, rubbing the top of his head with his hand, as if he was rubbing a lucky spot. I decided to change tactics and ask another burning question I had.

“Okay, then tell me about your tattoos.”

“I told you I didn't believe in fate; I believe in luck. So I figured, why not have all the luck I can with me?”

“How many do you have?”

He turned his arm and showed me the seven. “One,” he said, and then pulled his left ear so I could see the ink behind it. “Two.” He turned his back and pointed to the one between his shoulder blades. “Three.” He pulled his foot up and showed me another that I hadn't seen before, which was a star. “Four.” He pointed to the one on his chest. “Five. I want to have seven when I'm done, but I only do one when I get the urge, so I haven't gotten one in a few months.”

“What are they? I can't really see from here,” I said. It wasn't a ploy to get him to come closer in his shirtless state, I swear.

He got off his bed slowly and walked toward me. The look on his face wasn't confident. It was open, as if he was showing me a piece of himself that he rarely shared. I knew this moment was precious, easily broken, like a finger through a soap bubble.

“This one, you can see is a seven. It's a lucky number in many cultures. This,” he said, pulling his ear forward, “is your standard horseshoe. Sailors used to nail them to the masts of their ships to help them stay out of the path of storms.”

He turned his back, and I finally saw what the one on his back was.

If I hadn't done a project in sixth grade on Egyptian mythology, I might not have known it was a scarab beetle. The beetles would shed their outer skins, carapaces, and the Egyptians saw that as a symbol for rebirth, and thus thought the beetles were immortal.

“You're really mixing up your mythologies there, Z.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the nickname.

“I'm all for diversity,” he said dryly.

I got out of bed and went to study it closer. It was beautiful, the colors nearly shimmering on his skin. Whoever he had gotten this from was a real artist. I resisted the urge to reach out and touch it to see if it was real.

“So, there you have it,” he said, turning around. “And then I just have a little star on my foot. So there you have it, my ink history. Now show me yours.” His mouth turned up at the side, and Mr. Cocky was back. What a shock.

“Sorry, dude, none to show,” I said, hopping back in bed.

“I wasn't asking about your tattoos, Missy.” He leaned forward and braced his hands on either sides of my legs, almost, but not quite touching my skin. Even though he wasn't touching me, my skin tingled as if he was.

“Why, Hunter, are you asking to see my lady parts?”

“Asking is putting it mildly,” he said, and there was the tiniest growl in his voice.

The want to push myself forward and mesh his body with mine was so strong, I had to grab onto the sheets to stop myself from doing it.

“You're just messing with me,” I said, my voice a little breathy, like I'd just run up the stairs. “You said you didn’t screw girls you liked.”

“Oh, Missy, if you only knew,” he said. He slowly moved forward until his face was right in front of mine before pulling back and walking out the door.

Damn him. Damn him and his blue eyes and his interesting tattoos and his take-what-I-want attitude. The fact that he had a tragic past just added to the mystery of Hunter Zaccadelli.





*****





“Hey, kid!” Tawny said, hopping out of her Volvo convertible. I ran to smash her in a hug. I had seen her only a week ago, but I'd missed her.

“Whoa, you okay?”

I'd hugged her a bit too enthusiastically. She also must have read the tension on my face.

“Let's get you a drink and I'll tell you about it.”

We walked into Margarita's, the only decent Mexican place in downtown Orono. It was crammed between a clothing store that sold fashions for larger women and a real estate office. It was ridiculously narrow, but had two floors so there were plenty of cozy nooks and private places. The tables were hand painted, and there were tons of sombreros and chili lights strung on the wall. Soft music played in the background.

Tawny and I went upstairs and found a table for two in a corner behind a large beam. I ordered a Coke, and Tawny got a margarita.

“I'll give you a sip when no one is looking,” she said.

I filled her in on the whole Hunter saga while we waited for the waitress to come back so we could order.

“He sounds like an ass,” was her assessment.

“He is,” I said, laughing

Tawny paused with her drink midway to her lips.

“Oh, no.”

“What?” I said, looking around.

“You like him.”

“What? No, I don't.”

She put her drink down, her mouth dropping open in surprise.